


Clint Barton, Pool Shark Extraordinaire

by kaotiskplatonisk



Series: The Avengers: Earth's Mightiest Dorks [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint Barton & Tony Stark Friendship, Clint Barton Doesn't Believe In Chairs, Drunken Shenanigans, Earth's Mightiest Dorks, M/M, Pool & Billiards, Star Trek References, Tony Stark Is Just One Big SNAFU, Tony and Clint Are Gigantic Dorks, so many of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 22:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3586206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaotiskplatonisk/pseuds/kaotiskplatonisk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Hawkeye swung by the Avengers Tower to split a whiskey with Tony, it ended in a drunken pool cue duel to the death and a mysteriously large amount of ping pong paddles appearing strewn around the penthouse floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clint Barton, Pool Shark Extraordinaire

**Author's Note:**

> Hej! Welcome to another pointless fic that I decided needed to happen to make up for Clint's lack of snark in The Avengers.   
> Clint fucking Barton, everybody.   
> Muse-ic: How You Like Me Now? by The Heavy  
> Cheers!

The first time Hawkeye swung by the Avengers Tower to split a whiskey with Tony, it ended in a drunken pool cue duel to the death and a mysteriously large amount of ping pong paddles appearing strewn around the penthouse floor.

* * *

 

Looking back, yes, it probably wasn't Tony's best idea to challenge a MASTER ARCHER to a round of aim-oriented party games. But in his defense, Tony had no idea the guy could hold his liquor so well.

"Learned from Tasha," Clint slurs after his third pint of beer, lying face-down on the granite bartop, "She can chug vodka like it's fuckin' orange juice, lemme tell ya."

From across the room, draped across the arm of the couch, Tony salutes him with his glass. He frowns into the empty bottom of his tumbler, then props it on his forehead. Through some miracle of gravity it stays, rim-down and dripping a solitary teardrop of scotch down his temple.

"Hey," Tony says, though it comes out more like a loud mumble, "Y'know what? You're pretty fuckin' awesome, Clint. But you're still a total dick."

"Totally," Clint agrees, rolling over onto his side. Or at least, trying to. He miscalculates how far he's supposed to roll and goes tumbling over the edge of the bar. Tony breaks down into drunken giggles as martini glasses and a super spy go crashing to the floor.

"Why d'you have a pair of foam Hulk fists stuck t'your ceiling?" Clint groans from his new spot. Tony frowns, the tumbler shaking precariously on its perch as his eyebrows knit themselves together.

"We don't- we do not talk about that."

"Aye aye, keptin."

And from there it devolves into a series of half-unintelligible Star Trek catchphrases, which is cool, which is fine, because Clint is ACTUALLY FROM IOWA and that just makes the Captain Kirk jokes that much more hysterical. Like, a metric ton of hysterical just thrown on top.

Tony really has no idea how he's standing, usually this far down into a bottle of cognac and he's passed out in a puddle of vomit and alcohol, but hey, no complaints here. Butterfingers keeps offering him maraschino cherries from his new place behind the bar, picking each one out of the bowl with almost reverent care, whirring impatiently until Clint throws a pencil at it, spearing the bright red fruit clean through its center and tacking it to the nearest wall. Tony blinks. Who- who let Clint have pencils? Sharpened pencils? Who would instigate such an act of unholy terror?

The pencils are so WEIRD though, they're not even Ticonderoga or some shit, they're all blue with a grey cap at the end, octagonal wood smoothed at the edges with a neatly printed '6B' stamped to the side in silver. Fancy, fancy pencils.

…Who the fuck owned fancy pencils in HIS SKYSCRAPER? Totally not him, Clint didn't look like the Rembrandt sort…

Tony narrowed his eyes, giving up on trying to make himself a martini after the third spilled attempt and just taking the whole damn bottle of tequila and a slightly worse-for-wear glass and propping himself up on a bar stool. Clint doesn't even look up, just keeps harpooning cherries with his free hand and aiming the pencils just right so they land in a pattern across the wall. Tony sloshes his tequila at the archer irritably.

"You. Stop drawin' penises on my wall with pencils and cherries."

"There are no promises here," Clint mutters, chin pressed against the bar (which he has miraculously managed to climb on top of again), "Nope, no promises here. Go look in that other gaudy skyscraper down the block, maybe they have some there."

"My Tower," Tony slurrs, "Is not GAUDY. It's fuckin' SOPHISTICATED, Barton, so screw you. It is sophisticated. Emphasis on the SO."

"So, phisticated." Clint agrees, finishing off his slightly obscene mural with a flourish. And somehow that is just comic gold to Tony because he's laughing harder than he thought possible, a little bit of tequila getting backlogged in his nose with the force of it and JESUS ON A CRUTCH did that burn.

"We're the best drunk buddies." Tony proclaims, pumping a fist in the air and almost falling over when it shifts his equilibrium. Clint juggles the remaining three pencils he has in hand with a surprising amount of coordination before using them as darts, on the dartboard half a room away. Tony hears them 'thunk!' into the bullseye one after another anyway, and narrows his eyes at his new buddy.

"We should play pool."

Clint barks out a laugh, trying to make a grab for the stemless wine glass filled with whiskey Butterfingers keeps pushing out of reach. Every time his fingers brush the brim a little trifold claw nudges it back and away.

"I will smoke your ass, flyboy."

"One, I resent that, my ability to fly is fucking AWESOME and it's saved your gorram life so you can suck on that. And B, I am the crown monarch of pool, Hawkguy, I am the heir ascendant to the throne of pool cues and eight balls."

Clint snorts and mutters "eight balls is alotta balls" under his breath.

"We're playing pool." Tony decides, standing up with what little wobby balance he has left. His feet are on two very different tracks of thought from each other and his brain, and walking drunk is like taking a good field of vision, drowning it in a film of booze, and then centering the whole thing six degrees to the right of where it used to be.

The penthouse has a billiards table, because what reputable former smarmy arms dealer wouldn't have a tricked out billiards table in his so phisticated penthouse dreamsuite? The table unfolds from the floor, a retractable panel unveiling it as it rose to full height. Butterfingers immediately stole all the goddamn chalk, the bastard, and carted himself back to the bar. He tried dropping the little blue nubs into the empty cherry bowl, but somehow it didn't fill the void.

Tony took a few minutes to remember which end he was supposed to poke the ball with, but once he had that figured out it was touch and go from there, really. Clint couldn't figure out how the ball rack worked, assuming like any reasonable person would that it was a crown and therefore must be worn. Tony snagged the damn thing off Clint's head and staggered all the balls inside, then promptly stuck it on his own head and levelled his cue at the line-up.

"Dude," Clint drawled when Tony missed the little phalanx completely, sending himself crashing into the side of the table.

"Dude, you played three rounds of beer pong with a guy named Hawkeye. There is no way in all the seven levels of hell you're gonna win this."

"You have severely misjudged how drunk I am." Tony replied in an alcohol-drenched voice as he heaved himself back into standing position, his grip on the cue bone white as if he was waiting for bloody Namor to come crashing through the window so he could have a go at swordfighting the bastard with a wooden stick.

"Sticks and balls." Clint chuckled again.

Tony managed to scatter the balls- none of them landing in any pockets, to his outrage- on his sixth attempt, the cue knocking into the second ball from the center. Clint made noises of protest, but Tony completely ignored him and staggered off to get more booze.

"Shitfaced drunk!" Clint hollered after him, then dissolved into petty laughter. He lined up his cue with a promising ball and ran a few snap-decision angles and curves of trajectory. When Tony reappeared with a six pack of Sam Adams and a shiteating grin on his face under those stupid Dolce sunglasses he always wore, Clint had neatly tucked away four striped balls and had made at least two dick jokes.

"Peasant," Tony said as one of the balls ricochet and bounced harmlessly off the side of the table. Clint swore voraciously. Tony picked up a bottle of beer and his cue, considered both, and tossed the bottle to Clint, lining up his next move. Clint cracked the metal casing with his teeth and took a long pull, clambering on top of the jukebox in the corner and spectating Tony's epic failure at billiards.

"There are, there are CHAIRS," Tony warbled, his grip slipping on the cue as if it was made of lukewarm butter, "Y'know, things with LEGS 'n SEATS 'n shit. You SIT in them. You're like a fucking cat, Jesus H Christ."

"Whassa H stand for?" Clint asked, lounging on his new perch. Tony blinked at him.

"I don't fuckin' know." He said, and the two collapsed into helpless, knock-down, drag-out laughter. It was almost painful, like someone had punched them in the gut.

And that's when Steve walked through the door.

He took one good long look at the penthouse, usually so neat and polished despite being a veritable playground for six walking security risks, and immediately reconsidered his life decisions up until that point. Then he strode calmly forward, took the pool cue from Tony's alcohol-lax grip, and eyed the ball closest to the outer edge.

Clint's jaw practically hit the floor as Steve- fucking STEVE of all people- swept the goddamn floor with both of them with a look of complete serenity on his face.

Three balls reached their respective pockets as one united force, prompting another to roll into its pouch. Steve lined up his shots with military precision, the flinty gleam in his eyes quiet and unmistakable as he utterly decimated the table. He sunk the eight ball with a sharp jerk of the muscles in his arm, straightened up and set the pool cue aside, ripping one of his pencils out of the wall as he quit the room through the workshop entrance.

Clint stared at the table in dumbstruck wonder, and a tiny touch of muted terror.

Tony tipped the neck of his Sam Adams to the archer and grinned.

"I win."

"You do not, you filthy liar."

"No, but he does, 'n I'm the one fucking him, so I win by association."

"That is not even a thing."

"Screw you, Barton, I do what I want."

"I am never getting drunk with you again." 


End file.
